


Behind Closed Doors

by runningondreams



Series: Out of Sight, Not Out Of Mind [3]
Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Alcoholic Tony Stark, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends With Benefits, Grief/Mourning, It's Avengers: Disassembled it's bad okay, M/M, a lot of people are injured or dead, an epically bad day, canon character death mention, hints at pining, no one is happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-21 10:28:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17042012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningondreams/pseuds/runningondreams
Summary: The Mansion is in shambles. Tony'slifeis in shambles. And then there's Steve. Solid, dependable Steve, doing his best to keep them all whole.Sometimes, there are no good answers left.





	Behind Closed Doors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cap iron man community](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=cap+iron+man+community).



> A combination of a couple different Cap-Ironman community gift prompts, including: “Steve carrying Tony to bed,” “Steve and Tony are friends with benefits when they're between relationships,” and “secret relationship.”
> 
> Set in the immediate fallout of Avengers: Dissassembled, before the finale goodbye. There are some plot timeline things that I’m unclear on (because Marvel events are just like that), so for the purpose of this fic, let’s just state that Rumiko and Tony have been broken up for a while and the events of Iron Man #87-89 happen in the weeks after this.
> 
> Many thanks to comicsohwhyohwhy for the beta!
> 
> * * *

* * *

It’s over. All of it.

The attack by Ultron, the Kree invasion, Jennifer’s rampage and Wanda’s sudden betrayal. This fight, Avenger on Avenger. And the only explanation they’re left with for _any_ of it is cosmic, magical manipulation stemming from a mental breakdown.

It’s not that it’s never happened before, but the _scale_ of this. Tony never even imagined anything like it. Never thought they would be quite this helpless to save themselves, especially from one of their own.

Even now, in the aftermath, there’s really not much for any of the remaining Avengers to do. Magneto takes Wanda away. SHIELD takes charge of Agatha’s corpse and searches her house for anything useful. Some of the agents throw occasional nervous glances at the silent mob of superheroes crowded on the front walk. The Avengers, past and present, have turned in on themselves, a huddle of colorful costumes with their backs to the rest of the world. 

Tony can’t bring himself to lift his gaze from the helmet in his hands. Hiding his face would be a disservice to his friends, all of them grieving, but oh, how he wishes for that anonymity now. Polished gold between him and the world, some space, some distance, and maybe then he’d be able to fully process the events of the last few hours, maybe he’d be able to trace all this destruction and hurt back to some kind of reason. Some motivation that would make it mean _anything_ other than one of his friends betraying them all. 

He stares into the eye-slots. He can’t come up with anything.

God, _Wanda_. All that power, all that _influenc_ e and—and Vision is dead, taken over by Ultron. Clint and Scott are dead. The mansion is a mess, blown up by a zombie Jack of Hearts. Tony himself has been _drunk_ in front of a panel of world leaders without drop of alcohol in his system. 

He could spend every waking moment with Strange for a year and he’s fairly certain he _still_ wouldn’t understand how magic works. Magic is real, magic can cause damage on levels Tony can barely dream of, but he can’t break it down into pieces, can’t _know_. On some level he’s angry about that, but he’s so tired he can hardly feel it.

Beside him, Steve sighs and rubs his face, leaving ash streaked over the blue of his cowl.

“Any word on Jan?” he asks, his voice barely rising above a murmur.

“Nothing yet,” Tony reports. His own voice is tinny in his ears, even without the helmet. “Hank says she’s still wasp-sized.”

“He can’t make her change back somehow?” Sam asks.

“No,” Tony confirms. “It has to be her.”

“Damn.” Steve’s hand falls to his side. “This is such a mess.”

“I think it’s gone a bit further than mess.” Carol crosses her arms, her shoulders stiff. 

No one seems to have a response for that. Tony can’t think of anything to say. Thinking at all feels like trying to walk around in an unpowered suit—slow, heavy, sluggish. And painful.

“I’m going home,” Tigra says, finally. “I don’t have a lot of space, but if anyone needs a place to crash you’re welcome to it.” Her eyes flick from Steve to Sam, and then she meets Tony’s gaze. He shakes his head. He looks to Steve, who nods at him. 

“Everyone get some rest,” Tony says. “There’s nothing more we can do here.”

There are more nods, murmurs of assent. Steve leads the way to the waiting jets and most of the others follow him. Those that can fly on their own do so. The night is still and clear, and after a mile or so Tony’s on his own in his little patch of sky. 

He heads to the mansion. 

He _should_ go to his apartment. Try to sleep. But there’s nothing waiting for him except empty rooms and even fewer distractions from his own demons. Ru’s cut herself out of his life; Pepper and Happy are wrapped up in each other. He can’t stop his thoughts from looping in on themselves, over and over, repetitive and unproductive. He can still see Hank’s accusatory expression in his mind’s eye, raging at him for a drink he never took. Jan, so still, and so small the doctors can’t help her. Jennifer, hulked up and raging out of control. Kelsey with a breathing mask over her face in the ICU. And Wanda . . . well. 

Most of the mansion is just so much rubble. Even the front gates were blackened by the explosions. Some of the ruin is still smoking when he arrives, the smell acrid even through the armor’s filters.

How did this even _happen_? How could Wanda have done all this and none of them noticed a thing? She’d been standing right next to him. Concerned about him. 

But she hadn’t responded to the code white.

Maybe he should’ve known then, instead of trying to defend her. 

He makes a go at inspecting the mansion, cataloging the damage, but it just confirms what he already knows—the Foundation’s not going to be able to cover this. Not alone. Maybe he can scrape up enough to get started but . . . SI is suffering, he was— _face it Tony_ —he was fired from being Secretary of Defense. That’s not going to help the stock numbers. Media opinions are all over the place, both on himself and on the Avengers in general. More than half the team is either dead or in critical condition.

He makes himself keep looking, searching by moonlight and the armor’s scans, seeing what can be saved.

The kitchen, the living room, those are pretty much just gone. The crater from Jack of Hearts’ explosion covers half the back garden, including where the pool used to be. The foyer’s a mess of shattered furniture and stairs that don’t lead anywhere. Most of the main house was blown straight off the foundation, but the wings are still standing. 

He stops.

There’s a bottle of Grey Goose lying on the carpet. Full bottle. Unopened and undamaged. He doesn’t know who it belongs to or where they were keeping it, but now it’s in the middle of the hall floor and it’s all Tony can do not to pick it up and crack it open. 

It’s been such a day. He can fucking _taste_ it on his tongue. Oblivion. Freedom from care. Right there, wrapped in glass.

The bottle’s in his hand. He can see his own gauntlet through it, slightly distorted.

No. 

He doesn’t need it.

He won’t drink it.

He’s already been drunk once today and it was _awful_ he doesn’t want—

He throws it away, watches it shatter against a rafter that’s come to join the floor in what used to be a stairwell.

Things go a bit . . . blank after that. When he remembers himself he’s on the floor, on his hands and knees, gasping and retching hard enough that his throat aches with it, even though there’s nothing in his stomach to come up. He shivers, his face and hands and the back of his neck clammy with cold sweat. 

He needs to get out of the armor. Put on clean clothes, if he can find them. Drink some water and wash the taste of ash and death and bile out of his mouth.

His rooms turn out to be mostly intact, if covered in rubble. Part of the ceiling is blown out, but it’s nothing load-bearing. His closet is untouched, and he spends a moment just staring at the rows of suits and button-ups before he strips off his gauntlets and sets to work on the rest of the armor, leaving it in pieces at his feet. The undersuit is soaked through and he has to peel it off his skin, damp handfuls of inches at a time until he’s standing naked, cool night breeze on his back.

He closes the closet door behind him to shut out the chill, but then he’s in pitch darkness. The lights don’t work because of course they don’t, why would they.

Whatever. He knows where everything is, anyway.

He needs a shower, but the pipes in his bathroom don’t connect to anything anymore so he settles for toweling off as best he can and grabs the most comfortable clothes he can find in the dark—an old work-out T-shirt and sweats. 

It’s not as if he’s expecting much company. If anyone else comes by it’ll be Steve. Or at least, he’s pretty sure Steve will come back here. Eventually. 

He stares at the bed for a moment. There’s gravel and dust on it, but he’s tired enough he might not care.

He doesn’t want to sleep. Not yet. Not alone, not if he can help it.

He grabs a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and backs out of the room, shuts the door out of habit ( _there’s a hole in the ceiling, it’s not as if shutting the door will matter, Tony, get a grip_ ), and heads for the East Wing, which seems to have the least damage of what he’s seen so far. It might be difficult to get to the upper floors without flight or serious climbing abilities, but the walls are still solid.

He’s standing in the library, surrounded by emergency lantern lights and trying to decide if some of the books and paintings can be salvaged at least, when Steve finds him.

“Thought you might be in here,” he says from what used to be the doorway but is now more of a gaping hole.

Tony stares at him for a moment. It’s a little gratifying to know he was right, that that nod had meant what he’d thought it did, but Steve looks like he hasn’t even taken a moment to breathe out yet. He’s still in uniform. Everything but the cowl. 

His face is easily the best thing Tony’s seen all day. Not that it’s much of a contest. But still, there’s something heartening about it. Steve is here. Tony’s here. They’re together, in this place of a thousand conversations and ten thousand memories that is still standing, despite everything.

He doesn’t ask where Steve went first. Doesn’t ask if Steve’s alright. None of them are alright, today. _I’m glad you’re here_ seems cheap, given the circumstances. So he doesn’t really say anything and defaults back to what they do best: work. Companionable problem solving. 

He gestures at the bookshelves.

“I was trying to figure out if we can save any of this. The smoke’s done some damage, but at least a few things should survive.”

“Of course.” There’s no hint in Steve’s movements that he’s tired at all. He just walks over and starts picking up books off the floor.

Tony experiences a brief moment of supreme envy. He’s pretty sure if he tried to bend over right now he’d fall and stay prone on the carpet for a few hours. He pushes the feeling away. Steve’s always been good at masking pain when he wants to. Tony doesn’t know what Wanda did to send Steve flying out the window, but the landing looked like it hurt. And before that he was fending off a Hulk in pure rage mode. The super soldier serum doesn’t mean he doesn’t bruise.

“Most of the paintings will be okay if we get them somewhere safer soon,” Steve says, and Tony realizes that while he himself has stood rooted to the spot, Captain America’s made a circuit of the room and inspected his artwork. He clears his throat and refocuses on the task at hand.

“Do you have anywhere in mind? I can find a warehouse or ask the Foundation to store them, but they’re yours if you want to try something else.”

Steve looks surprised.

“I painted them for the team. They should go wherever the team goes until we can rebuild.”

The team. One of the portraits over Steve’s shoulder is of the first group of Avengers Steve led on his own. Captain America, Hawkeye, Quicksilver and the Scarlet Witch. They look so young. So eager. And now Clint is dead and Pietro is missing and Wanda is . . . he doesn’t even know what Wanda is. If Steve is feeling even a fraction of what Tony is right now, Tony has no idea how he’s holding together, or how he can talk casually about _the team_. The team is _gone_. The team is not one of the things they’re going to be able to salvage, here. That door is closed. Tony’s taking a leave of absence. He _has_ to, if SI is going to survive. Maybe the others will want to come back but he’d seen Sam’s expression. Kelsey and Jan are still in the hospital. Jennifer won’t trust herself immediately. As a supervillain-fighting force, they aren’t going to happen.

Some of his thoughts must show on his face, because Steve’s expression shifts to concern and he steps closer, reaching out in an offer of comfort. 

“Tony.” Steve’s hand is warm on his shoulder. He smells like leather and sweat and smoke. “We did everything we could.”

Tony closes his eyes. “We don’t know that.” The admission hurts like he’s been stabbed. He shudders, leans into Steve’s warmth. “We lost—god, Steve, we lost—”

“I know.” Steve pulls him into a hug. “I know, Tony.”

There are tears on his cheeks. He can’t control the shake in his shoulders, the way his legs give out underneath him. Steve lowers him to the floor and pulls him close. Tony can feel Steve’s arms around him. He rests his head on Steve’s shoulder, and it takes him a moment to realize that the dampness in his hair is Steve’s own tears. Not holding together so well after all. He hooks his left arm around Steve’s shoulders and buries his face in Steve’s neck and holds on tight, trying to give back whatever comfort he can.

They stay there for a long time. It’s been a while since they’ve been this—intimate is the only word for it, because Steve’s shaken his hand and clapped him on the shoulder, sure, but they haven’t been close like this, let their walls down like this since . . . since he before he started dating Ru, months and months ago. The time doesn’t seem to have mattered; it’s easy to fall back into that quiet place where only the two of them exist. Where only the places they touch matter, even if it isn’t sex this time. It’s a special kind of comfort, knowing Steve will have his back. That he’s not alone. That Steve trusts him with this.

That Steve _trusts_ him. Completely.

“Thank you, by the way,” he says. His voice comes out hoarse. Steve shifts a little. Takes a long breath.

“For what?” His voice doesn’t sound any better than Tony’s.

“For saying you believed me. When I said I wasn’t drunk.” Hank and Clint’s doubts still cut at him, twisting together with the UN broadcast to hound at his own certainty with every thought, but he _didn’t have a drink_.

“I do believe you,” Steve says. Just like that. So simple. But Tony needs to hear it so badly that he thinks he might cry again if he had any tears left.

“Thank you,” he repeats, half-whispered.

“You don’t have to thank me, Tony.” Steve holds him tighter. “I know you.” 

Tony doesn’t have any idea what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. He just sits there, leaning into Steve and listening to his heartbeat. It’s soothing. The whirlwind of flashbulb-image memories and repetitive accusations and recriminations that’s been ripping through his brain all day quiets and exhaustion hits him like a punch. He thinks he could maybe fall asleep here, that maybe he already has, even though his eyes are still open.

His eyes close.

He wakes with a jolt when Steve stands, cradling him bridal style.

“What—”

“Just thought you might appreciate somewhere a bit more comfortable,” Steve says. “My room okay?”

Tony blinks. In all the times they’ve shared a bed—or a couch, or a piece of convenient wall, or a section of floor—he’s quite certain he’s never been in Steve’s rooms for more than a quick, entirely innocent conversation or two. He’d painted an invisible line in his head for it. This side, but not that side. Maybe he hadn’t needed to.

“Sure,” he says. “My bed has debris all over it. But I can walk, I’m not that bad off.”

Steve doesn’t put him down, just starts wending his way around broken masonry and familiar halls turned strange in the dim light. It’s disconcerting. The only other times Tony remembers being _carried_ he’d been too injured to walk. Something about it happening now is making him feel . . . weird and floaty. Like he’s diving in the armor and left his stomach somewhere behind him. And there’s a little insistent thought of _maybe this thing isn’t just about sex_ that he’d thought he’d locked away years ago. Cradled against Steve’s chest he can’t stomp it down properly, can’t push it back behind that door in his mind, can’t help but think, _what if . . ._

Tony has to work the knob when they reach the door, but once inside Steve takes him all the way to the bed and sets him down on it. Tony can’t quite read his expression as he straightens. The light from the windows is too faint for a clear look. Steve hesitates for a moment and Tony gets the fleeting impression that he’s about to be kissed. But then Steve turns away, pulling off his gloves and boots.

The mail and pants are stiff and take a little more work. Tony shifts to the edge of the bed and helps with some of the more stubborn bits, and then Steve’s just down to the kevlar he wears under the mail and a t-shirt. He shucks them both off and it’s like he’s a whole other person. Like a switch has been flicked. Out from under the Captain America mantel, Steve _is_ tired. His movements are too slow, too clumsy. He hangs the uniform over a chair but leaves the gloves on the floor. He uses too much force pulling open a drawer and its contents ends up on the floor, socks and underwear and soft pajama bottoms spilling in a jumbled pile. 

He changes without cleaning it up, digs a fresh shirt from another drawer and pulls it on and then crawls into bed, pulling sheets and blankets over both of them. 

This isn’t really something they’ve done before. Intimacy without sex. Tony’s hesitant in his touches, acutely aware that this might _mean_ something other than friendship with physical benefits, and Steve doesn’t seem any more certain of what he’s doing. It takes them a minute to figure out comfortable positions for limbs and shoulders and hips. Steve ends up wrapped around him like a limpet, and Tony tangles their fingers together and holds on and tries not to overthink things. 

The timing is acutely terrible. On top of today and—everything—and he’s not really over Ru, he knows he isn’t. He doesn’t _need_ this complication right now. Or ever. Steve has been a constant when he badly needed one and this . . . would change that.

He pushes the thoughts away. Later. He’ll deal with it later. Right now, it’s enough to feel human warmth all along his side and hold Steve’s hand and listen to his breath in the silent dark. Tomorrow they’ll get up and face the world and see what can be salvaged. Everything else will have to wait.


End file.
